There is nothing more comforting than my mother’s sopa de arroz (Mexican rice). No matter how I try, I am unable to replicate her recipe. I have a white notecard with her recipe scribbled in my handwriting. I wrote down the recipe after watching my mother cook a large saucepan of its fluffy deliciousness. It was difficult, as my mother does not measure ingredients; she cooks by taste and sight, only. Possibly, that is the reason my estimated recipe never tastes as good.
Or maybe it’s because her recipe contains just the right amount of cumin, tomato, experience, passion, and tradition. Her sopa is never too watery, never too dry, never too salty. A hint of cumin and the smell of enchilada dinners from years past fills your nostrils as you lift a forkful, or spoonful, to your mouth. Slightly red-orange in color, it is soft on the tongue, but not mushy, and fills your mouth with slight bursts of onion, salty tinges of caldo con sabor de pollo, and tastes of a childhood wrapped in the serape of a mother’s loving kitchen.